21 Ways To Tell You're No Longer A Kid (Author Unknown)

 1. You're asleep, but others worry that you're dead
 2. You are proud of your lawn mower.
 3. You can live without sex, but not without glasses.
 4. Your back goes out more than you do.
 5. You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who walks in the room.
 6. You buy a compass for the dashboard of your car.
 7. You sing along with the elevator music.
 8. You would rather go to work than stay home sick.
 9. You constantly talk about the price of gasoline.
10. You enjoy hearing about other people's operations.
11. You consider coffee one of the most important things in life.
12. You no longer think of speed limits as a challenge.
13. People call at 9 p.m. and ask, "Did I wake you?"
14. You answer a question with "Because I said so!"
15. You send money to PBS.
16. You take a metal detector to the beach.
17. You know what the word "equity" means.
18. Your ears are hairier than your head.
19. You talk about "good grass" and you're referring to someone's lawn.
20. You got cable for the weather channel.
21. You have a party and the neighbors don't even realize it.

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What Women Are: A Legend (Author Unknown)

Women are made of feathers. Just look. That's why there are so many beautiful birds around.

Women came into the world determined. Just Look. They noticed trees were bare and so they grafted green leaves to empty branches.

Women danced wherever they went. Just Look. They made friends with wind, to make the flowers bend and to stir new songs from stones.

Women are ment to sing all the time. Just Listen. That's why water plays an endless tune, and trees whisper secrets to the Moon.

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When I'm A Little Old Lady (Author Unknown)

Then I'll live with my children and bring them great joy.
To repay all I've had from each girl and boy
I shall draw on the walls and scuff up the floor;
Run in and out with out closing the door.
I'll hide frogs in the pantry, socks under my bed.
Whenever they scold me, I'll hang my head.
I'll run and I'll romp, always fritter away
The time to be spent doing chores every day.
I'll pester my children when they're on the phone.
As long as they're busy I won't leave them alone.
Hide candy in closets, rocks in a drawer,
And never pick up my clothes from the floor.
Dash off to the movies and not wash a dish.
I'll plead for allowance whenever I wish.
I'll stuff up the plumbing and deluge the floor.
As soon as they've mopped, I'll flood it some more.
When they correct me, I'll lie down and cry,
Kicking and screaming, not a tear in my eye.
I'll take all their pencils and flashlights, and then
When they buy new ones, I'll take them again.
I'll spill glasses of milk to complete every meal,
Eat my banana and just drop the peel.
Put toys on the table, spill jam on the floor,
I'll break lots of dishes as though I were four.
What fun I shall have, what joy it will be to
Live with my children.... the way they lived with me!

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When I'm An Old Women (Jenny Joseph)

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and a pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

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When We're Alone, We Can Dance (Beth Ashley)
From Chicken Soup for the Soul

The cruise ship was crowded with people off for three days of pleasure. Ahead of me in the passageway walked a tiny woman in brown slacks, her shoulders hunched, her white hair cut in a bob.

From the ship's intercom came a familiar tune - "Begin the Beguine." And suddenly a wonderful thing happened. The woman, unaware anyone was behind her, did a quick and graceful dance step - back, shuffle, slide. As she reached the door to the dining salon, she re-assembled her dignity and stepped soberly through.

Younger people often think folks my age are beyond romance, dancing or dreams. They see us as age has shaped us; camouflaged by wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair. They don't see the people who live inside - we are the wise old codgers, the dignified matrons.

No one would ever know that I am still the skinny girl who grew up in a leafy suburb of Boston. Inside, I still think of myself as the youngest child in a vivacious family headed by a mother of great beauty and a father of unfailing good cheer.

And I am still the romantic teenager who longed for love, the young adult who aspired to social respectability - but whom shall I tell?

We are all like the woman in the ship's passageway, in whom the music still echoes. We are the sum of all the lives we once lived. We show the grown-up part, but inside we are still the laughing children, the shy teens, the dream-filled youths. There still exists, most real, the matrix of all we were or ever yearned to be.

In our hearts we still hear "Begin the Beguine" - and when we are alone, we dance.

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Woman (Author Unknown)

Women have strengths that amaze men.

They carry children, they carry hardships, they carry burdens.
But they hold happiness, love and joy.
They smile when they want to scream.
They sing when they want to cry.
They cry when they are happy and laugh when they are nervous.
Women wait by the phone for a "safe at home call" from a friend after a snowy drive home.
Woman friends keep secrets you told them years ago and never bring it up again.
Women have special qualities about them.
They volunteer for good causes.
They are pink ladies in hospitals, they bring food to shut ins.
They are child care workers, executives, attorneys, stay at home moms, biker babes and your neighbors.
They wear suits, they wear jeans, they wear uniforms.
They fight for what they believe in.
They stand up for injustice.
They are in the front row at PTA meetings.
They vote for the person that will do the best job for family issues.
They walk and talk the extra mile to get their children in the right schools and for getting their family the right health care.
They write to the editor, their congressmen and to "the powers that be" for things that make for a better life.
They don't take "no" for an answer when they believe there is a better solution.
They can wipe a tear, cover a cut and pat you on the back at the same time.
They eat a little so their family can have more.
They rush to school to pick up a sick child.
They stick a love note in their husband's lunch box.
They do without new shoes so that their children can have them.
They go to scout meetings and are chaperones on class trips.
They go to the doctor with a frightened friend.
They don't make excuses for defending their family or friends.
They give a friend some money in times of trouble.
They love unconditionally.
They are loyal, honest and forgiving.
They are smart, knowing that knowledge IS power, but they still know how to use their softer side to make a point.
Their world consists of goodness, love and caring.
Women want to be the best for their family, their friends and themselves.
They cry when their children excel and cheer when their friends get awards.
They get teary eyed when others do great things.
They save their anger for the unjust and the insincere.
They tell people that need to be told to straighten up their act.
They lend a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen and a voice to make suggestions.
They are happy when they hear about a birth or a new marriage.
Their hearts break when a friend dies.
They have so much sorrow at the loss of a family member, yet they are strong when they think there is not any strength left.
They can control situations that seem uncontrollable.
They can round up energy when they are tired.
They can stay up a little longer to talk to someone that needs a friend.
They will rush to be by your side when they are lonely.
They will give up their favorite TV show to help with homework or read a bedtime story.
A woman's touch can cure any ailment.
They know that a hug and a kiss can heal a broken heart.
She can make a romantic evening unforgettable.
She can bring out the best in her husband, children and friends.
They don't mind standing in the shadows.
They are not there to push, but to gently encourage.
They are cheerleaders, teachers, lovers and important in many peoples daily lives.
They can whisper a kind word, scream a loud cheer and laugh away a fear.
They can mend your broken spirit and give you back your self-esteem.
They can knit a family back together after a break or a loss.
Women come in all sizes, in all colors and shapes.
They live in homes, apartments, cabins and trailers.

They drive, fly, walk, run or e-mail you to show how much they care about you.
They have hearts that forgive and forget an injustice.
They have hearts that remember a kindness.
They have hearts that beat with loyalty and love.
The heart of a woman is what makes the world spin.
They can cry and laugh at the same time.
They can be sad and hopeful at the same time.
Women do more than just give birth.
They bring joy and hope.
They teach us to dream and make goals.
They give compassion and ideals.
They climb into a persons life and make everything better again.
They give moral support to their family and friends.
And all they want back is a hug, a smile and for you to do the same to people you come in contact with.
Women are leaders, but don't want followers.
They want people to grow into the best person they can be.
They want to touch you in a way that will make you share your goodness with others.
One touch can turn a bad day into a better one.
One extra minute of her time will make a child feel special.
One more kiss will make her husband feel loved.
Women have a lot to say and a lot to give.
After God made Adam, He improved by making Eve.

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Women of America... Wake Up! (Author Unknown)

My thighs were snatched from me during the night of March 22nd. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been wholly, if imperfectly, mine for 34 years? Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine? I spent that entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, a pools and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed.

I became obsessed: I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My buns were next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match my new derriere -- although badly attached at least 3 inches lower than the original -- to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my rear complimented my legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.

It was 2 years when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning while fixing my hair, I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and from with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, a section at a time.

Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Aged was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity. No, I was being attacked, repeatedly and without warning.

During the spring of my 36th year, my attention was rived to upper arms -- female arms. I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public nor flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I held them straight out and did endless circles that would have tightened my real arms but did nothing for these Silly-Putty caricatures. In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my arms and my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?

In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind people that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded me of. That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical profession by myself. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That ain't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're getting those replacement parts, don't you?

The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted," look again. Was it lifted from you? Check out those tummy tucks and buttock raising. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie star? I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them.

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Write Life (Author Unknown)

Write Life without it's friendships,
And who would read it through?
Paint Life without it's friendships,
And where is the rainbow hue?
Build Life without it's friendships,
And who would live therein?
For Friendship's gleam leads to the goal
That each of us would win.

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Grandma Shoes (Author Unknown)

When I was very little
All the Grandmas that I knew
Were wearing the same kind
Of ugly grandma shoes.

You know the kind I mean.
Clunky heeled, black, lace-up kind,
They just looked so very awful
That it weighed upon my mind.

For I knew, when I grew old,
I'd have to wear those shoes.
I'd think of that, from time to time
It seemed like such bad news.

I never was a rebel,
I wore saddle shoes to school,
And next came ballerinas
Then the sandals, pretty cool.

And then came spikes with pointed toes
Then platforms, very tall,
As each new fashion came along
I wore them, one and all.

But always, in the distance,
Looming in my future, there,
Was that awful pair of ugly shoes,
The kind that Grandmas wear.

I eventually got married
And then I became a Mom
Our kids grew up and left,
And when their children came along,

I knew I was a Grandma
And the time was drawing near
When those clunky, black, old lace up shoes
Was what I'd have to wear.

How would I do my gardening
Or take my morning hike?
I couldn't even think about
How I would ride my bike!

But fashions kept evolving
And one day I realized
That the shape of things to come
Was changing, right before my eyes.

And now, when I go shopping
What I see, fills me with glee
For, in my jeans and Reeboks
I'm as comfy as can be.

And I look at all these little girls
And there, upon their feet
Are clunky, black, old Grandma shoes,
And I really think that's neat.

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How to Spend your Sick Days (Author Unknown)

Languishing in bed last week with a bad cold, I spent four days in the company of Oprah and Maury Povitch and General Hospital. I was astonished to discover that most daytime TV commercials have one clear message: Women leak, dribble, and smell. They're overweight and they're constipated. Women have dandruff, split ends, bad breath, and bad breasts; both the under- and over-endowed require special bras.

Apparently women must buff, douche, diet, gargle, and primp constantly if they want to overcome their basic vileness.

Then I thought, maybe men get the same messages when they watch their programs. Maybe advertising during sporting events is geared toward products that men need to make them socially acceptable. So I turned on a golf tournament and spent an hour and 12 minutes watching their commercials. Evidently men are fine just the way they are.

They have a small problem with weight gain and graying hair, but mainly they are handsome, playful, and successful.

They get to go fishing with their buddies, using leaves for toilet paper. They could probably come home from their trip and hop right into the sack for a romantic encounter and think they were just fine. No rushing off to shower or spray here. Around this time I needed to get some cough syrup.

The first thing I noticed when I got to the drugstore was a huge sign, "Fem. Hygiene," hanging above an aisle filled with thousands of products designed for women's special needs.

There were a variety of pads in a multitude of shapes for heavy periods, light periods, and bladder control, as well as for women who want to feel fresh all day. There were yeast-infection medications, vaginal deodorants, vaginal lubricants, douches, personal towelettes, pregnancy tests, and germicides to do away with feminine odor.

There were laxatives, hemorrhoid creams, and gas-relief tablets. I looked all over, but there was no aisle for "Masc. Hygiene".

"Now, I've been around enough men to know that some of them could use piddle pads and penis towelettes and deodorants, products for crabs and crotch rot and athlete's foot and gas, so I couldn't understand why the drugstore didn't at least label the aisle "Fem./Masc. Hygiene." The closest I came to anything specifically targeted to men was a large display of condoms next to a shelf of K-Y jelly.

The packages for feminine products usually featured a woman in a gauzy dress running through a meadow full of spring flowers (daisies were very popular) as her sparkling clean hair billowed behind her.

I found myself attracted to a vaginal moisturizer that had a picture of a peaceful little water lily floating on a pond. "Do you know how to use this?" the male pharmacist asked in what I thought was a particularly loud tone. "Of course," I replied, certain that everyone in line was staring at me.

As it turned out, I couldn't even figure out how to open it. It was one seamless plastic entity. I tried twisting it. I tried cutting it with garden shears. I gnawed at it with my teeth and finally threw it in the trash. I was so angry that I called the manufacturer's toll-free hot line, which I'd seen advertised on TV, and complained to the customer service representative.

She told me I was trying to open the wrong end and that all I had to do was twist off a piece of plastic at the bottom. Now that would be a peculiar job, I thought, to spend your days answering questions about vaginal moisturizers. I wondered if men have an 800 number they can all to get information on crotch rot.

I imagined a TV commercial. A really clean guy fishing in a meadow stream, surrounded by daisies, with a deep voice intoning: "This cream is made specially for men's tender tissues. Call 1-800-JOCKROT for sensitive answers to your intimate questions about male hygiene."

Then I pictured the forlorn Jock rot representative, waiting like a Maytag repairman for the telephone to ring. It never does.

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